Soft Skeletons
by Verdreht
Summary: For the past couple weeks, Raylan's watched the Marshals pony Tim out to other state services. Tim's good, but even he has his limits, and Raylan's wondering if he might be just about to reach them. Sequel to Pray Tell, can be read alone. Raylan/Tim slash
1. Chapter 1

"Well, look who's finally back from vacation," Raylan greeted, leaning back in his desk chair with a smirk.

Tim had just walked into the office, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and his rifle case on the other. Raylan thought it was pretty apropos to Tim's character that the latter was the bigger of the two. The former was damn small, even considering Tim had only been gone three or four days.

He'd been back in Ohio again, covering for their absent sniper. Story was the guy had retired dead in the middle of one of the biggest drug crack-downs in years. Tim was the closest guy they could get, so he'd been shuttling back and forth between Lexington and Cincinnati for the better part of the month.

Frankly, it annoyed the hell out of Raylan. He remembered what happened the first time Tim went up there; he remembered all the bruises and scrapes he'd had that night, and just because they were healed up didn't mean that they didn't give Raylan something to think about. And besides that, he was only a man and his lover had been practically unavailable for weeks. It was only fair he got to be a little indignant, wasn't it?

Maybe. Tim definitely had it fair and square; he was the one being passed around like a favorite toy on the playground. And it was a sure sign of just how ridiculous the whole thing was that even Tim, who always went along for the ride even if the job sucked, was getting fed up with it.

Raylan waited until his lover had dropped his stuff by his desk and flopped onto the chair to continue. "You have fun playing house up North?"

"A blast," Tim muttered dryly, rubbing his face. When he took his hands away, his cheeks and eyes were red.

Raylan had half a mind to laugh and half a mind to ask Tim when was the last time he slept. He looked wiped out, but then, it was morning, so pretty much everyone looked wiped out. Except the morning people, but Raylan wasn't entirely convinced they were human, so he didn't count them.

"Well, I'm sure the citizens of Ohio thank you for your contribution to the safety of their streets."

Tim gave an unintelligible grunt and laid his head on the desk.

Damn, he really was tired.

Raylan was just about to suggest the guy go get some coffee or, God forbid, actually take one of those twenty thousand paid time off days he was hoarding. Really, Tim would've been the envy of the office for that number of days, only everybody that knew the guy already knew that he wasn't going to take hardly any of them.

Before he could say anything, though, Tim sat up, gave his eyes one last rub, and reached across his desk to turn on this computer. Time to get back to work, then.

A few hours later, Rachel came up to Raylan's desk. From the way she leaned in, he got the impression this was meant to be a candid sort of conversation.

He leaned in as well. "There a problem?" he asked.

"I was hoping you could tell me," Rachel replied. At first, Raylan was confused, but then her eyes flicked over to Tim's desk where the younger man sat poring over some paperwork that made Raylan's hand hurt just thinking about it. Now that they wree both on the same page… "Is he okay?"

Raylan shrugged. "You're asking me?"

"No, I'm asking the angel on your shoulder. God knows the thing doesn't get heard very often."

"Hey, now, that's not—"

"_Yes_, Raylan, I'm asking you."

"And just what makes you think I'd know?"

Raylan knew when he saw the hand go to the hip that he was in for a tongue lashing.

"Boy, do you really think I'm that stupid?" She took a deep – and, Raylan hoped, calming – breath and continued. "Look, let's just go on the assumption that I know exactly what's going on between the two of you and I'm completely cool with it. With that out of the way, would you care to answer my question?"

Raylan's brows knotted. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about Rachel's saying she knew what was going on. But, hell, she'd have figured it out eventually. What really got him was someone else saying what he'd been worrying about all morning. He'd been keeping an eye on Tim since he got in. He'd started off thinking he was tired, but he was starting to wonder if maybe it wasn't a little more worrying than that.

Tim had been working non-stop since he got in. Aside from a trip to the locker room to stash his stuff and a few trips to the can, he hadn't even left his desk. When he had left his desk, Raylan had seen him trudge from one place to the next rather than the usual offhand saunter that tended to move his step. He walked slowly, carefully, and Raylan had watched him trip over absolutely nothing at all.

"I asked him," Rachel continued. "He told me he was fine, but something tells me that's the same thing he'd say if he'd been shot to hell and was dying in my arms, so I thought I'd ask you."

Raylan nodded. "Sounds about right. Told me he was just tired."

"Maybe he is," Rachel said. "He probably is tired. I just wanted to check and see if that was all it was."

"Yeah, I understand. Help me keep an eye on him, then?"

"Keep an eye on who?"

Both Raylan and Rachel turned to see Tim leaning against the cubicle wall. He had his arms folded across his chest and a sort of amused-slash-expectant look on his face. The dark lines around his bright blue eyes kind of dampened the effect.

Raylan ignored the question in favor of one of his own. "Feeling any better?"

"More or less," Tim replied.

At the skeptical raise of Raylan's brow, Tim rubbed the back of his neck. "Probably less," he admitted. "Almost done here, though. Thought I'd get through this brief and take the rest of the day off."

It might've sounded casual enough, but Raylan knew better. Like he'd said: Tim Gutterson just didn't do sick days. For him to throw in the towel meant he had to be feeling pretty damn miserable.

"Want a ride?"

He didn't miss the look Rachel shot his way, but he chose to ignore it.

Tim shook his head, anyway. "I reckon I can make it in one piece," he said.

"You reckon? That's reassuring," Raylan muttered.

"I do try."

"Awful mouthy for someone claiming not to feel so hot. Those fellas up in Ohio teach you that?"

Tim smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Raylan opened his mouth to retort, but Rachel beat him to it. "I hate to spoil you boys' fun, but I seem to recall a certain meeting we're supposed to be going to…" she checked her watch, "…three minutes ago."

With that, she started for the conference room.

Tim and Raylan shared a look.

"I saw that," Rachel called over her shoulder.

Both men smiled, and Raylan gestured for Tim to go ahead of him.

Raylan started to fall into step behind him, but then something caught his eyes. His smile faltered. Maybe he was imagining it. Paranoia.

But damn, he could've sworn Tim was limping.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the longest meeting in Raylan's life, he swore to God. Art was talking for what had to be going on an hour straight about something he admittedly probably should've been paying attention to.

He just couldn't. He was paying attention to something else.

Tim.

The man had been on a steady decline from the moment he sat down in that chair. It hadn't looked too bad at first. Tim just sat there, flicking his pen in his fingers and watching Art.

As the meeting wore on, though, nearing the half-hour mark, Tim had started downhill. His pen had fallen to the desk, and he hadn't bothered to pick it up. His eyes were slowly coming out of focus, and his face had gone almost sheet pale.

The real alarms started going off, though, when Tim's head started to slump forwards. He'd seen Tim pull a week of all-nighters before and, tired as he was, he hadn't even dozed off.

This wasn't a doze, either. It wasn't like he was falling asleep; it was more like he couldn't keep himself on point. His breathing had quickened, and as Raylan (and, he suspected, Rachel) watched, Tim dropped his head into his hands.

It seemed Raylan and Rachel weren't the only ones that noticed, though. The second the head researcher's – a glorified desk jockey with delusions of grandeur and an ax to grind – eyes fell on Tim's seemingly sleeping form, Raylan could almost hear the sites locking on.

There was nothing he could do to stop it as the balding man (Larry? Harry?) leaned forward and banged the edge of his clipboard against the wood of the table.

Everyone jumped. Tim's wasn't even the most violent, either; he jumped, his chair sliding back a foot or two. He blinked wildly, and Raylan could swear if he'd gone any paler, he'd have been able to see straight through him.

"Am I boring you?" Larry asked. His tone dripped with smug satisfaction that would've made Raylan want to beat the guy six ways from Sunday.

Only, Raylan's attention was elsewhere. He was watching the way Tim's eyes widened and the way his hands were shaking. Cold sweat sprung on his brow.

Luckily, Art picked up on it, too. "You alright, Tim?" the older man asked, his face set in deep concern. That look on Tim's face, far off and alarmed, wasn't normal. It wasn't healthy.

Raylan didn't know what to do. He almost hoped Tim would lie and say he was fine, because that would at least be typical Tim.

But no…Tim didn't lie. He didn't shrug it off. He didn't pretend.

Instead, he stood, bracing one hand on the table and pressing the other to his face. "I gotta – I gotta go." He turned abruptly, took one step, took one more step—

Then dropped like a rock. He just crumpled, his lean legs going out from under him. A dull thud echoed through the conference room as he hit the floor, and for a split second, nobody moved.

And then everyone did.

Raylan nearly flipped out of his chair, sprinting over and dropping to his knees beside Tim's fallen form.

Tim was unconscious.

Vaguely, Raylan registered Art shouting for everyone to clear out, but he wasn't really listening. All his concentration was devoted to the young man he'd lifted into his arms. Cradling the back of Tim's head in one arm, he pressed two fingers to Tim's neck. He was hot, Raylan discovered. Feverish, but at least his heart was beating.

"C'mon, Tim, wake up. I need you to wake up for me," he said. He tried to pretend his voice didn't catch, and that he could hear it over the racing of his heart in his chest. He needed Tim to wake up, because he told himself that if Tim would wake up, he could take care of him. Limps and fevers, he could deal with; unconsciousness was a battle Tim would have to fight for himself, and Raylan couldn't stand the helplessness.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Art was standing behind him.

"There's an ambulance on the way," Art said. "He's gonna be alright."

Raylan nodded. Of course Tim would be alright. He was a tough little son of a bitch. Raylan just wished he'd hurry up and—

Move. Tim tensed in Raylan's arms, and Raylan looked down to see the pair of blue eyes he'd been looking for so desperately. They were out of focus…fever-bright.

Tim's brows knotted. "Raylan?" he asked. "What—?" It seemed to occur to Tim, then, that he was in the floor. It simultaneously occurred to him that he did not _want_ to be in the floor.

Actually, Raylan doubted there was that much thought behind it. It was pure instinct, Raylan wagered, that had Tim jerking forward trying to sit up.

The moment he tried lifting his shoulders up off Raylan's arm, though, he let out a sharp hiss and stopped. He fell back in an instant, his eyes squeezing shut and his left hand snapping to his right shoulder to hold it. His jaw clenched and unclenched, and he ground his teeth.

So, he'd hurt his shoulder. Raylan made a mental note of it, and then shifted back to the more pressing matters outside his head.

"Take it easy," he said. Tim had started trying to curl up on the floor, pulling back from Raylan in the process as he hugged his arms around his chest. Raylan didn't take it personal; Tim had to be in a world of pain to carry on like that, and Raylan had it in his head to let him do what he thought'd make him more comfortable.

But Raylan didn't know what the damage was, and he didn't know if moving might make it worse. So, he pulled Tim back into his lap, holding him in the crook of his elbow.

"Just hang tight, darlin'. You're not going anywhere."

"'m fine," Tim protested, but he punctuated it with another attempt at sitting, which seemed to go over even worse than last time. A choked sound broke form his throat, and the agony in the sound was enough to roll Raylan's stomach.

And it wasn't stopping. Each panted breath brought a strained, reedy whine that Rylan was dead certain Tim wasn't doing on purpose. Whatever he'd just done had tweaked something just right. The way Tim was holding his shoulder, Raylan wondered if he might've dislocated it, or maybe broken his collarbone even. He hoped it was the former, but with that grimace, the latter seemed entirely possible. Especially with how much trouble he seemed to be having breathing.

Unless that was something else he needed to check.

As carefully as he could, he started to ease Tim to the floor. Even that slight motion brought Tim's pained groans to an agonized crescendo.

"Sorry, Tim. I'm sorry," Raylan told him, and oh God, he was. He should've stopped this before it got so far. "I need to get a look at you."

Tim let out a broken sort of chuckle that broke into a groan when it jarred something. "Just want my shirt off," he muttered. It was a halfhearted joke at best, but at least he was trying.

Raylan forced a chuckle in response. "Yeah, you caught me," he said. As he spoke, he pulled his blazer off and balled it up, slipping it under Tim's head.

"Ray…gotta admit…this don't feel so great," Tim said. His blue eyes were open again, just barely, and glassy with pain. His jaw was set so tight, Raylan couldn't believe he couldn't hear it grinding, and his grip on his sweater over his shoulder was white-knuckled.

"I know, darlin'. I know." But there wasn't much he could do about it. Matter of fact, it was probably about to get worse. He needed to get a look at him, like he'd said, and to do that he needed to get through his shirt. If he'd been wearing a button-up, it would've been one thing. He was wearing that sweater, though, and there was no way Raylan could get to his ribs and shoulders. Not without trying to get it over his head, and he knew that wasn't happening. He wasn't putting Tim through that much pain for a shirt, and the paramedics would've cut it off him anyway when they got there.

Luckily, there wasn't a man in Kentucky walking around without a pocket knife handy, and Raylan was no exception. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his own and took hold of the hem of Tim's shirt.

"What're you doing?" Tim asked. He tried to get a look at what Raylan was doing, but that involved raising his head, and the moment he tried doing that, he paid the price.

Raylan took a break from his assassination of Tim's sweater to brush a hand through Tim's hair. "I told you I gotta get a look at you. I hope you don't have a particular attachment to this sweater, because I don't think it's gonna survive this encounter."

"Shame," Tim muttered, but he let Raylan push his head back down onto the makeshift pillow and didn't make to lift it again. He also didn't put up too much of a fight when Raylan picked his fingers off his shirt and put his hand back down to his side.

"Do try to hold still this time. I don't care to carve you up the middle like a Thanksgiving turkey, and I believe you've had enough in the way of a bad day."

Wisely, Tim didn't move as Raylan ran his knife up the front of the sweater. The arms went next, and with a little bit of maneuvering, Raylan managed to get the sweater off and clear of him. The only thing he had left on was his white t-shirt, and Raylan could already tell he was about to be a very unhappy camper.

Through the thin white fabric of the t-shirt, he could make out another layer of white swathed around Tim's middle that stood in contrast with the rest of his skin.

"Tim…" he began, his voice town between admonition and confused concern as he hiked up Tim's shirt enough to see the layer of bandages that stretched up from the hem of Tim's jeans to about his navel, "what're these?" There was another one, too, up on Tim's right shoulder. It covered most of his shoulder and his upper arm.

Tim let out a miserable, defeated sounding sigh. "What's it look like?"

"Well, Tim, it looks an awful lot like there's something you've been meaning to tell me," Raylan retorted. With a few quick strokes of Raylan's knife, the rest of the t-shirt was gone and Raylan…. "Jesus Christ."

The bandages weren't the worst of it. Definitely not the worst of it. Down near the left side, bottom of Tim's ribs, an angry-looking bruise bigger than Raylan's fist stood out stark against his skin. His right shoulder was worse, and Raylan knew instantly that he'd been right before: his collarbone was broken. Skinny as Tim was, Raylan could see the edge of the bone against his skin.

Raylan put his knife away and turned back to Tim. "How's this happen?" he breathed, his fingers ghosting over the bandages and the bruise on Tim's side. He didn't dare go near Tim's shoulder.

Tim raised a shaking hand to cover his face and his chest heaved and caught around a deep breath. Raylan knew that sound, knew that gesture…his boyfriend was fighting tears.

It hit Raylan like a kick to the chest. Sure, it pissed him off that Tim hadn't told him about any of this. But more than that, it worried him. _Why_ hadn't he said anything? He never did say when he was hurt – one time, he'd broken three fingers in his hand and didn't say anything 'till Raylan saw them on the wheel when he tried to drive. He'd shot three people that night with his fingers broken, and it took a random glance for any of them to know.

Frankly, it terrified Raylan. What if this had gone on? What if he'd let Tim go home, and he'd passed out there instead? He didn't know how bad it was, but he could only imagine if it got any worse.

As it was, there wasn't much he could do but wait for the ambulance to come. "You should've told me," he said as he sat back on his ass. His legs were falling asleep from sitting on them, so he turned and stretched them out to the side.

"I know."

"So, why the hell didn't you?"

Tim gave a one-sided shrug. "Couldn't."

"Now, I understand it takes a lot for you to get past the monosyllables, but I'm pretty sure you could've managed. Nothing fancy. Just a 'by the way, Raylan, I'm beat to hell and I'm probably gonna pass out real soon' would've sufficed."

Shifting uncomfortably, Tim tried to turn his head so that he could get a look at Raylan. It wasn't happening, though, and Raylan wasn't mad enough to watch him struggle. Careful as he could, he lifted Tim's head up and slid the blazer out from under it. He shifted so that his lap was under Tim's head, and he spread out his blazer so that he could cover up Tim's bare chest.

After a second, once the new stab of pain had ebbed away enough that he could breathe again, Tim replied, "You would've made Art take me off duty."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"We're shorthanded as it is. Ohio needs a sniper…Art said it was important, an' I could still work."

"Yeah, right 'till you dropped like a rock in the middle of the damn office."

"I've had worse."

"You keep it to yourself then, too?"

Tim had the good sense to blush. "No," he muttered, and then let out the saddest sounding chuckle Raylan had ever heard. "No, then I woke up in the hospital with half my damn body in a cast and a doctor telling me my buds'd been killed in an ambush."

"And thus we arrive at the root of the problem..."

Of course, it was no big shock to Raylan that Tim had issues from the war. He just…hadn't thought they ran this deep. He was afraid to take a break, afraid to be out of the fight, because he was afraid of what would happen while he was. Probably wasn't even a conscious thought; Raylan knew enough about phobias to know that the person didn't have to be aware of them. Maybe Tim was…either way, Raylan understood.

That didn't mean he worried any less.

"I'm sorry that happened, Tim, but I can say to a reasonable degree of certainty that we could've handled things while you were out," Raylan told him, brushing his hands gently through Tim's hair. "We'd have made due…there's no reason for you to put yourself through this."

As Raylan continued his ministrations, Tim's eyes began to slide shut. He was so tired, and feeling as bad as he was, it was only a matter of time before he gave up and slept. Apparently, though, not before he got in one more word. "Well," he said, his voice rasped and quiet, "not much to do about it, now. But I'll take you up on your offer for a ride."

Raylan shook his head. "I'm afraid that offer's been voided. You've got another ride already set up."

Tim opened his eyes at that, a questioning look to them.

"There's an ambulance headed here with your name on it. Actually, I imagine it should be gettin' here pretty—Tim!"

Before Raylan could get a hold of him, Tim rolled over onto his knees and good arm and sprang up.

Or, at least, he tried.

The second he tried putting weight up on his left leg, his knee seemed to buckle and he went right back down. He just barely managed to catch himself on the back of a chair and tried to take another step only to repeat his fall. This time, he caught himself on the table, and started to use it as his support.

Raylan was on his feet a lot easier than Tim. "Tim?" he asked, taking a careful step forward as Tim tried to round the table. The big oak square was now directly between the two of them, and Raylan watched him try to keep moving, using the table as a sort of crutch as he went. "Tim, where're you goin'?"

"Home," Tim replied, his voice catching on the word. Raylan was moving, now, trying to head Tim off, and Tim had taken to backing away.

He frowned. "Darlin', you can't go home. Not just yet, not 'till a doctor's gotten a look at you, okay?"

Tim shook his head. "Don't need a doctor."

"Maybe not, but it's better safe than sorry. Just humor me, okay?"

Tim shook his head again. "Don't need a doctor," he repeated. "I'm going home."

"I can't let you do that, Tim. We both know there's not a snowflake's chance in hell of you getting out of here on your own two feet, so you're just gonna have to trust me. You're gonna be alright."

"I'm not going. I'm not leaving."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not," Tim insisted. There was a far off look in his eyes, now, like he was looking at something a thousand miles away. And he didn't seem to like what he saw. Raylan watched him stumble, holding onto the table as best he could with his one good arm, but even that arm was shaking, now. He'd gone dead pale, and coupled with the shivers and the glazed look, not to mention how he seemed to be having a little trouble getting his head wrapped around things, the signs tended to point Raylan in the direction of shock.

Which meant things were about to go south in a big way.

And that was about the time the paramedics showed up.


	3. Chapter 3

They really should've known better than to make an entrance like that. Bustin' in like they did…with Tim already on edge and maybe not altogether in control of his actions, it was almost guaranteed that Tim would react.

Which, he did. The younger man, shaking from strain and fear and possibly shock, drew his sidearm with speed that still gave even Raylan pause and trained it on the two paramedics.

Behind them, Art looked alarmed.

"Raylan, what in the Sam Hill's going on here?" he demanded.

"Well, Art," Raylan said, his eyes only briefly flicking away from his boyfriend to his boss, "ya'll seem to have startled Tim here a little, who I suspect might be going into some sort of shock, which I suppose is understandable seeing as how I'm pretty sure he's gone and broken his collarbone. That, as I understand it, is a pretty painful experience. He also seems to bear a _very_ strong grudge against hospitals, which I probably should've taken into consideration before I told him just what was about to be happening." He glanced over at Art. "That clear things up?"

"Enough," was Art's clipped reply. "Though I'm confused as to how that leads to me having a gun pointed at my face."

"Like I said…you startled him. On that note, I'd recommend refraining from any sudden movements."

"Get out." The command came as a snarl, though the tremble in it made it less intimidating and more pitiful.

"Now, Tim, ain't nobody here to hurt you, so just put the gun down," Art said.

"I said get out!"

"Raylan?"

Raylan frowned. "Art, I think you better do what the man says." And he flashed him a look that he hoped conveyed, "I got this." Because frankly, so long as those paramedics were in the room, he didn't see Tim calming down anytime soon.

Art didn't look terribly happy about it, but eventually, he nodded. He turned and left and took the paramedics with him, leaving Raylan once again alone in the conference room with Raylan.

"They're still watchin'," Tim said, staring out the windows. Sure enough, there were people all around them, staring inside. For all they knew, this was a hostage situation.

"Don't mind them," Raylan told him. "They're not gonna hurt you. I'm not gonna let anybody hurt you. It's just you and me here, darlin'…just take it easy." Raylan took another step towards him, and mercifully, Tim didn't make any move to get away from him. Seemed no matter how out of sorts he was, he couldn't bring himself to point his gun at Raylan. He kept it out, just…lowered.

"Raylan…" Tim looked stuck, shifting his weight from foot to unsteady foot like a nervous colt. Sweat beaded off his brow and his breath came in shallow pants. Each step Raylan took towards him made it worse, and his unfocused eyes darted between Raylan and the paramedics waiting just outside the door.

"Hey, don't look at them," Raylan told him, finally stepping around the corner of the table so that he was on the same side as his boyfriend. "Look at me. It's just the two of us in here…you're alright." He reached out a hand, only to watch Tim flinch back a little. "Easy…you've got nothing to be afraid of. I'm just looking out for you."

"Then make them go," Tim retorted, his voice wavering like the gun in his shaking hand. It wasn't upset that was making that hand shake – even petrified and left-handed, Tim's hand never shook. It had to be shock, then, which meant Raylan was running on a time limit.

"I'm not gonna bullshit you, Tim. No matter how this plays out, even if you fire that gun which I sincerely hope and believe you will not, you are going to the hospital. Now, I'm sorry that don't sit well with you, I really am. I'd take you home right now if I thought you'd be alright. But you've got yourself a broken shoulder and a bruised rib and I get the sneaking suspicion from the way you're actin' that you might be in shock, and that's just what I know about. So we're gonna get you checked out, you're probably gonna end up staying a night or two, maybe more, and then I'm gonna take you home and look after you while you take however long the doctor tells you to get back on your feet."

He took another step forward. Tim didn't move.

"But hell," he continued, "it won't be all bad. I'm sure you got some of those Disney movies to catch up on, and there's a good ten take-out joints we can do on a rotation. Like a vacation."

Tim let out a hysterical sort of laugh. "It's not that easy," he said.

"It can be," Raylan insisted. "Just give me the gun, Tim. I ain't asking you to trust them or get over your fear of hospitals in a day. All I'm asking's that you trust me. Just trust me."

As he spoke, he took the last step to close the distance between Tim and himself. The gun was close enough to grab now.

Raylan reached for it. Tim recoiled.

"Hey, now," Raylan said gently, but firmly. He reached for it again, but Tim backed away. This time, though, Raylan didn't give up. He kept on after it, and managed to get his hand around Tim's. Tim wasn't letting go without a fight, though, pulling at the gun like it was his last defense. "Don't—Tim, don't fight me."

But he was trying. Hot damn was he trying, he was just too messed up to put up much struggle. Raylan managed to get an arm around his waist and get him turned around, holding him back against his chest. He managed to pin his good arm to his stomach with one arm, and was trying to get the gun away with the other hand as Tim twisted and thrashed. Even half out of his head, Tim was military trained and it showed. Raylan reckoned if he hadn't been down an arm and mostly a leg, he might've stood a good chance of getting loose. As it was, he got in a few good shots.

Raylan could take a hit, though, and he was determined. After a few more seconds, he managed to wrench the gun out of Tim's hand and slid it across the table well out of Tim's reach. Soon as it was clear, he turned Tim around. Tim used the brief break to try pushing away from Raylan, but Raylan pulled him close again into a firm embrace.

"Let go!" Tim screamed, but it was muffled by Raylan's shirt.

Raylan just tightened his hold as Tim struggled, his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him and his jaw set taut. "You're alright, darlin'. You're alright."

He'd never heard Tim scream like this. The younger man sounded absolutely petrified. The sound was damn near feral, and it was killing Raylan knowing that he had anything to do with what was making Tim cry that way. But he didn't have a choice, so he gritted his teeth, and he dealt with it.

Slowly, surely, Tim's struggles started to ease up. Maybe it was 'cause he was just too tired to keep fighting like that, but Raylan liked to think he was calming down.

"There you go," Raylan said. With Tim no longer fighting him tooth and nail, he was able to let up on one of the hands holding him still and instead card it through Tim's hair, cradling the younger man's head against his shoulder.

And then, Tim broke down. Harsh sobs wracked his already-shaking form and his good hand clenched around the fabric of Raylan's shirt.

"Sorry," he choked out. "I don't—I didn't—"

"Hey, hey, it's fine. I know you're scared and you're all out of sorts, but it's gonna be okay. No one's gonna hurt you."

"Ain't worried about that," Tim managed. He didn't seem to be able to say much more than that, though.

Luckily, he didn't have to. Raylan understood. "No one's gonna get hurt, either. Everything's gonna be fine."

After a moment, Tim nodded into Raylan's shoulder. Raylan couldn't tell if that was 'cause he believed him, or just 'cause he was too tired to argue. Either way, he would take it.

He held him closer, half holding up his weight 'cause his leg didn't seem to want the job anymore. He pressed a soft kiss to Tim's hair and then rested his chin on his head. As he stared straight ahead, he saw the paramedics begin to approach.

"Tim," he prompted softly.

Tim made a soft noise.

"Those paramedics are fixin' to come in here—no, no, no. Don't go gettin' worked up on me again." He held Tim firm against him, still stroking his fingers in a soothing rhythm through Tim's messy hair. "Those paramedics are gonna come in here, and they're gonna put you on one of those stretchers. They're probably gonna poke and prod you like some sort of prize pig, and I reckon you won't like it too much. But I'm gonna be there the whole time, okay? I'm not gonna leave, so you just take it easy and let these people do their jobs."

Tim didn't get a chance to respond before the paramedics came in.

"Easy, easy," Raylan said, holding Tim steady as the paramedics approached. When they got the stretcher pulled up behind him, Raylan let him go. The paramedics were waiting to help him onto the stretcher.

Only, one of them grabbed the wrong shoulder. Raylan saw it coming, but just like the head researcher, there was nothing he could do about it. The second the paramedic's gloved hand settled on the bandage, Tim let out a strangled groan and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

It was all Raylan could do to catch him before he hit the ground, and together with the paramedics, he managed to get his unconscious boyfriend up onto the stretcher. As they started to wheel him out, he fell into step behind them, and when the woman paramedic turned around to tell him to stay, he fixed her with a look at just dared her to argue with him.

"I'm riding with him."

Wisely, they didn't argue.


	4. Chapter 4

Raylan frowned, crushing the paper cup in his hand and tossing it to join its brethren in the trashcan. That was his fifth cup of coffee that day. He'd had six the day before. Frankly, he didn't know why he kept drinking the stuff. It tasted terrible, and it was making him jittery, and he didn't _need_ anything to make him more restless.

He was just about to climb the walls as it was. He'd been sitting in the same chair in the same room for going on two days now. Hadn't even changed out of the t-shirt and jeans Winona'd brought him the first afternoon. Aside from pacing and the occasional trip to the attached bathroom, he hadn't so much as left that spot.

How could he? How could he leave when the bed in front of that chair held the thing most precious to him?

It was almost hypnotic, watching the rise and fall of Tim's bandaged chest beneath the blankets, listening to the heart monitor beep the steady rhythm of his pulse. It was nearly enough to drive him insane, but…well, he couldn't leave. Especially not now.

The doctor had cut down his morphine dose a few hours ago, and according to him, he ought to be waking up any time now. Preferably sooner than later, as it were. The quicker Tim woke up, the quicker Raylan could take him home.

Anxious as he was, the first time he saw Tim's breath hitch, he was almost certain he'd imagined it. Wishful thinking or something.

But then his brows knotted and his breath caught again.

In an instant, Raylan was on his feet, bracing a hand on the side of the bed and staring down at Tim.

"You with me, Tim?"

At first, there was nothing, but then after a long moment, Raylan heard a groan. Tim's face drew into a grimace, and finally, little slits of blue appeared.

Raylan couldn't help it; he grinned like a fool. "You know," he said softly, mindful that Tim was just comin' around – Tim didn't like loud noises when he was waking up; it always made him jumpy, "I coulda sworn you said something about Ranger school and not sleeping past six-thirty. I'd say you missed that mark by about, oh…" he raised his watch and made a show of looking at the face, "thirteen hours."

Eyes still gazed over, Tim reached up a hand to wipe his face only to stop short with a groan. Everything he did was delayed, sluggish – even the groan.

"You're probably gonna want to avoid moving that side for a while. Seems you've gone and fractured your collarbone."

Tim made a face that looked somewhere between angry, confused, and _really_ drowsy. "Wha…it wasn't…"

"Yeah, the doctor said you probably didn't break it falling. Which is good, 'cause I've had plenty of time to think up tons of old lady brittle bones jokes. Nah, he said you probably cracked it beforehand. Can't fathom how…"

"Raylan, it's—"

"…or, at least, I couldn't 'till Rachel found your damn vest in your locker. How in the hell's a _sniper_ of all people get shot three times? Do you go lookin' for the trouble, or do you just happen upon it?"

Of course, even drugged silly Tim was the most nonchalant little bastard Raylan had ever seen. Raylan wagered he would've shrugged if his shoulder hadn't been in the shape it was.

"'All available units,'" he mimicked loftily. "There were _not_ as many available as I'd have liked."

"Yeah, well Art's having some words with the guys in Ohio." He turned and grabbed the small vase from the table. "They even sent you flowers."

Tim chuckled weakly, and winced as he discovered that wasn't a great idea. "You know you got those. Don't go…pushing it on Ohio."

It was all Raylan could do not to laugh at Tim as he talked. Everything was slurred, lilted, and every other sort of lagged, and he couldn't seem to get his eyes to focus on just one place. In all honesty, he was kind of glad Tim wasn't the "pop right back like the drugs don't work" sort of fella; if he was, it would be a hell of a lot harder to keep him in place. Besides, it wasn't often Raylan got to see him so…open.

As it was, he just smiled and put the vase back on the table. "Nah, I'm not really the flower sort. I'm more for the practical gift. I was thinking self-preservation lessons."

Tim raised an eyebrow, and luckily that didn't seem to hurt. "Self-preservation lessons?"

Raylan scratched his head sheepishly. "Yeah, not one of my better ones."

"I forgive you."

"How kind."

After that, things went quiet for a while. The silence wasn't uncomfortable – Tim looked to be dozing off, and Raylan wasn't expecting much in the way of conversation from Tim. But then, Tim took a deep breath like he was trying to stay awake, and started to try pushing himself up.

"Hey, hey," Raylan started quickly, holding Tim in place with a hand on his good shoulder. "What are you trying to do?"

"Trying to sit up," Tim muttered irately. Raylan was pretty sure he wasn't imagining the blush that colored from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

"Why do you need to sit up?"

Tim actually thought about it for a second. "I dunno," he admitted finally. "I just want up."

"No, you don't," Raylan told him. "You think you do, but what you really want is to lie there and make fun of shitty daytime television with me."

"Thought you said it was seven thirty."

Raylan blinked at him. "Now, how is it that you can do math when you're high as a kite."

"'m not high," Tim said almost indignantly.

"Well, let's see if there's something we can't do about that," was Raylan's reply. As carefully as he could, he reached across the bed to the remote on the other side. Sure enough, there was a button for the pain meds. The nurse had instructed him to tell Tim to use it if he needed it, but he knew Tim well enough to know the guy wouldn't push that button if he thought he was dying.

"What're you doing?"

"Never you mind."

"Don't be a smartass."

"Don't be a martyr. Ooh, touché, Raylan, touché."

"You're not funny."

"I ain't laughing. Neither are you, but I suspect that has nothing to do with how clever I am," he said, but then he frowned. "Shoulder's bothering you, huh?"

"I'm fine."

"And I'm Dolly Parton."

"Really, Raylan, I'm—"

"You say 'fine,' I'm taking off my boot and beating you with it," Raylan warned. Sure, he wouldn't really hit him, but the meaning behind it was severe enough. "You lyin' to me's what got us in this mess in the first place, Tim. If you're hurting, you tell me. It's not gonna make anyone think any less of you, least of all me. So, just tell me that you're hurting and let me try and fix it, okay?"

Raylan watched as the words sunk in. Tim's face fell, he averted his eyes, and for a long while, he didn't say anything. Finally, though, he muttered a small, "Sorry."

With a deep sigh, Raylan leaned down and pressed a kiss to Tim's brow. When he straightened, he forced a smile. "Don't apologize…'s not your fault. Just…don't do this to me again, alright? 'cause then I really will beat you with my shoe."

"I'll keep that in mind," Tim said, but Raylan knew it for what it really was. A concession. A promise, in different words. Tim wouldn't admit he was wrong, because he didn't seem to think he was and he wasn't one to lie. But Raylan knew he'd think twice before letting this happen again, and that was a step in the right direction.

"See that you do," he said. "In the meantime, I've got this handy little remote with a line to your pain meds, and if you don't have any objections…"

Mercifully, he got none, and he went ahead and pushed the button. Even if he had, he probably would've pushed the button, but it was nice to know Tim feeling cooperative.

"That ought to help," he said, sitting back in the chair. It was close enough that he could keep his hand on the bed, and he did just that.

Good thing, too. Tim just sat there for a few minutes, watching the bad-quality television and just generally being spacey. After those few minutes, though, Tim started getting restless. When his eyes started to drift shut, he rubbed at them. When his head started to loll, he started trying to sit up again.

Raylan was on his feet again, keeping a steadying hand on Tim's shoulder. The younger man was fighting sleep, and it wasn't a battle he was winning.

"Hey, just take it easy," Raylan told him, brushing a hand through his messy hair. Tim reached up to try to bat his hand away, but it was so slow Raylan just caught his hand and put it back at his side. "You're alright."

Tim hardly acknowledged him, going to sit up again and just not quite managing. Between Raylan's hand, the effects of the morphine, and his own existing fatigue, he might as well have been tied down. But hell, he was a tenacious sort of guy, and maybe his Ranger experience had something to do with it; whatever it was, he was putting up a hell of a fight.

"You are one odd little bird," Raylan chuckled. "C'mon, now, don't you want to save a little of that fight to antagonize me when we get you home?"

Raylan realized a too late that he might've wanted to keep that last bit to himself. Tim started trying to get up again, even though he was about one breath away from a marathon nap.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Tim," he said. "We aren't going just yet. Why don't you catch some sleep, first, and we'll see about it when you wake up?"

Tim didn't look too pleased at the suggestion, but it seemed he didn't get much say in the matter. It wasn't long before he sagged under Raylan's hands, his eyes slipping shut and his breath evening out.

When he was sure Tim was asleep, Raylan sat back in his chair. He glanced down at the remote, his eyes falling on the miracle button. "Handy trick," he muttered. Maybe he'd see about getting one of these things to go. Might come in handy when he was looking after the guy for the next week or two.


End file.
